


Let Me Steal This Moment

by lesbianmountaingal (AllTreesAreSapphic)



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Character Study, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Lies Sleeping Spoilers, M/M, Metaphysics, Rivers, and to explore the whole Ghost God thing cause that's so cool, and you cant stop me, basically i interpret That Scene in lies sleeping is confirmation that peter is bi, completely unbetad and vaguely unedited too there should be some Spicy Typos, i wrote this to prove it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-18 09:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16992237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTreesAreSapphic/pseuds/lesbianmountaingal
Summary: "When the new Beverley Brook was born he felt it, because of course he did, because on some weird and metaphysical level they were the same person. He felt the wonder of being newly alive dimly, like a muscle memory. He felt love looking up into the eyes of a mother that wasn't his. He felt connected to the magic of the city like he hadn't done in over a hundred years, and it was bittersweet in every way."aka peter canonically kissed a dude and that dude was also technically his gf and that whole situation was so wonderfully complicated i had to write all this





	1. Chapter 1

He's a quiet ghost, considering how loud he was in life. After he died he would joke with Ty that the procession upriver to the cleaner waters of the country was so silent, not out of respect for them, the rivers that had been choked out and buried, but because everyone was so used to Beverley chatting away none of them knew how to fill the gap. 

He realised after a while it was more sad than funny. 

He's quiet enough, though, in the magical sense, that he's not sure his replacement really knows he's there at first. It's the 80's, more than a century since Father left and three decades since the new Goddess took over. Ty was first, of course. Then a few of the others, Fleet and Effra. His brothers warned him that he would be next, that it would be like getting reborn and dying all over again, that he'd give over part of his own soul, cut it out and watch someone else run away with it. 

They didn't tell him he was going to start hearing the thoughts of a baby. 

When the new Beverley Brook was born he felt it, because of course he did, because on some weird and metaphysical level they were the same person. He felt the wonder of being newly alive dimly, like a muscle memory. He felt love looking up into the eyes of a mother that wasn't his. He felt connected to the magic of the city like he hadn't done in over a hundred years, and it was bittersweet in every way. 

Sure, he had a vague idea of what went on in the world of the living, before. Their existence was a bit like being fossilized in rock: they were trapped in the past, but as each new layer got laid down they sensed it, or the echoes of it, even buried as deep as they were -- now it was like a fissure had opened up, given him a glimpse of the living, glowing world he couldn't reach. 

Beverley was a lot like him. She was curious, smart but not clever (as his brothers had always called him), determined and a little bit stubborn. Great hair, even if other people might not always agree. Could talk the hind legs off a donkey. Ty always complained about 'Cecelia', said they were nothing alike and they didn't get on, but Beverley loved his replacement, and wished frequently that he was a bit louder of an echo, that she could sense him like he sensed her. He reckoned they would've been mates. 

As it was, Bev the second was eight before she even realised he was there. 

 _____________________________________________

When you're an orisa certain things, like swimming and seeing through murky water and that tricky matter of intake of oxygen without using air, come naturally. Beverley had been swimming since before she could remember, probably since before she was born -- so she didn't know why mum wouldn't let her swim in her own river without one of her big sisters keeping watch. Tyburn was bored and she was embarrassed, so she was sticking low and looking for cool stuff in the riverbed as a distraction. 

She knew really that her mum was just worried. She didn't know what about, it was probably grown-up stuff she wouldn't understand, but it might have something to do with the Old Man -- Baba Thames, who didn't want her mum to be goddess of the river. Beverley had never met him, but she knew she didn't like him, or his sons. 

She'd woken up the other night with a bad dream, and gone through to find her mum but she'd been busy talking to Lea about something important. Not so important she hadn't given Beverley a big hug till the bad dream went away, but she'd kept talking while she stroked her daughter's head. 

'And what did they want this time?' she'd asked Lea over Beverley's shoulder. 

'No demands. But they gave the usual speeches, this river belongs to the Old Man, calling you a pretender to his throne, et cetera. There was something new, this time,' Lea was talking about things Beverley didn't quite get but they made her feel angry anyway. "Pretender" didn't sound like a nice thing for her mum to be called. 'They mentioned his sons -- the ones that came before. Said we were disrespecting the dead. That there hasn't been a god of the Tyburn since 1850 and there isn't one now.'

'I will not allow his followers to speak of my daughters this way. We must push back. But I know,' she stood up, and began to carry Beverley back to bed, 'that there's nothing men like them hate more than a woman who is right, and who knows she is right.'

As Beverley swam she wondered what Lea had meant, by that bit about Ty. Was there ever a different god of her sister's river? What happened to them?

That was when she saw it, glinting through the silt, half buried. Something small, round, and gold. She tugged at it and pulled out a twisted band the size and shape of a horseshoe with knotted orbs on each end, all of it dirty gold. A torc, like the Celts wore -- she'd learnt about them in school for a project, they'd made their own out of pipe cleaners and glitter glue. It sounded funny. Hummed in a way that was weirdly familiar. 

She closed her eyes, holding it in both hands, and sank to the bottom, her knees sliding into the silt. And listened. 

_I wondered where the hell that thing got to._

A voice, inside her head, faint but there and so annoyingly familiar it was like the worst kind of déjà vu. She concentrated and thought as loud as she possibly could. _Where what got to?_

_That torc. I think I lost it sometime in the 10th century -- I held onto it just in case they came back into fashion. Never did though. Bummer._

Hearing him, whoever he was, was like hearing the voice in her head that spoke her thoughts except it wasn't her thoughts he was speaking. _Who are you?_

_I was kind of hoping you'd figure that one out yourself. You're a smart eight-year-old, as eight-year olds go. And you're also a goddess._

_...Are you Baba Thames' son?_

_Baba? Never heard dad called that before._

_But you are?_

_Yes._

_Are you a ghost? Is that why I can't see you?_

_I think I'm a ghost. Definitely dead._

_Are a lot of Baba's sons dead like you?_

_Just about everyone downstream of, oh, Teddington Lock._

_But all my sisters are downstream._

_Exactly._

_So… so... you and your brothers died and then me and my sisters were born?  
…Am I the first Beverley Brook?_

_First Beverley Brook, who's favourite colour is green and steals her big sister’s jewellery even though it doesn't fit and writes Christmas cards for every kid in her class? No, there's only one person like you and that's you. But first Beverley Brook, respectably-sized river in South London? Different matter._

_You were Beverley Brook. Before I was._

_Bingo._

She didn't know what on earth to make of that. She knew that there were older rivers, like Lea and Walbrook, but she didn't know they could die. Or that mum and her sisters had replaced them. _Why haven't you talked to me before?_

_You haven't heard me before._

_I wasn't listening._

_You are now. But be careful, you don't want to slip too far into my world. It's dangerous, especially for people like us. You'd better go on home now, actually._

Beverley opened her eyes and realised she'd sunk up to almost waist-height in mud -- she struggled to get her legs free and then shot out of the water, still holding the torc.

'There you are! Jesus, Bev I was just about to jump in after you and this jumper wouldn't have survived a soaking like that. You've got to come back when I call you, you can't just stay down there however long you please!'

'Sorry Ty,' she squeezed out her braids as much as she could. 'Wasn't paying attention.'

'No, you weren't, you little menace. I've got so many more important things I could be doing with my afternoon than babysitting you while mum launches a --'

'Launches a what?'

'Never mind. What's that?'

Beverley held out the torc. 'Found it in my river -- it's old, like, museum old. Can I keep it?'

Tyburn subjected it to an inspective glare before deciding Bev could, in fact, keep it. 'If it's in your river then it's yours anyway.'

‘Has it always been mine?’

‘What?’

‘The river. It’s way older than me. Whose was it before I was born?’

Tyburn hesitated. ‘Nobody’s. The river didn’t have an orisa until you came along.’

‘Ever?’

Her sister gave her an intimidating look that said stop asking questions, but Beverley had never been one to back down cause of a look. ‘There was, wasn’t there?’

‘Ages ago. Like, centuries. But they all died so it’s not important – you’re Beverley Brook, and no one else is. So, drop it, okay? I’m not supposed to tell you about this stuff till you’re older.’

Beverley relented, finally, having got the confirmation she needed. But she kept hold of the torc as they walked home, and she remembered who it had belonged to.


	2. Chapter 2

‘She’s got a crush, and it’s driving me mental,’ Beverley offered by way of a hello.

‘Who’s got a crush? And why do you feel the need to bother me about it?’ Tyburn had been enjoying a particularly peaceful memory of a summer day in 1602, particularly because it was peaceful – two millenia of living (and dying) with siblings should have tought him better.

‘You know damn well who I’m talking about,’ he flopped down next to his brother. ‘His name’s Peter, she met him back in winter and now? He won’t text back.’

‘Peter like the Isaac? The one who sent her to live with dad upstream?’ Beverly nodded. ‘I have to say, signing a girl up for a hostage exchange and then dropping off the radar…’

‘I know! When we meet him again we’re gonna kill him.’

‘No you’re not.’

‘No, we’re not.’

Beverley sighed. 'I don't know if he's right for her. He's obviously got some kind of commitment issues, and he's an Isaac so he's untrustable by nature. I don't want her getting hurt, Ty, not least cause it'll be me getting hit with the emotional fallout along with countless innocent floodplain residents.' 

'I'm not so sure. He seems like he means we'll, at any rate.'

'... how exactly would you know?'

Tyburn froze for a second, then distractedly tugged at his tar-black hair. 'Cecilia -- she's met him loads, can't get rid of the bugger -- did I tell you he blew up her fountain, the one she put in at the source of our river?'

Beverley's eyes narrowed. 'What are you hiding from me, William?'

'... well,' Tyburn chose his words carefully. 'Last week I may have... encountered him here in the --'

'WHAT?'

'It was just for a minute!'

'When?! Where?! Why?! HOW?!' he only stopped cause he'd run out of one-word questions. 

'Tunnel collapse in my patch -- it was the Quiet People, you remember them, Cecelia must be having a field day -- and he was trapped in the rubble. So I pulled him out. I thought we could go get pissed or something, as a distraction from how he was slowly dying and all, but he didn't want to -- dug himself straight back in once he figured it out. I was only trying to do him a favour, but I guess he'd rather die with his eyes open -- not that he died, they rescued him in the end, so don't give me that look.'

'I can't believe this,' Beverley was apparently letting Ty off the hook for now, although he wasn't done complaining. 'Peter Grant's been rattling around my head for months now and he has to go and get himself in mortal danger in your patch. It's not fair.'

Tyburn said nothing. Beverley clearly had something he needed to get off his chest, the best thing to do was just wait for him to run out of steam -- it didn't take long. 

'... What was he like?'

'Who, Peter?'

'No, Brad fucking Pitt.'

'He was clever,' Ty grinned at his brother's annoyance. 'Proper clever, only took him seconds to get who I was and where we were. And bloody single-minded too. But I'll tell you what -- underneath it all, I think he's good, actually good, rare as that is. Cecelia hates it, nothing ticks her off like idealists.' 

Beverley smiled a faint and faraway smile, so different from his normal cheeky grin that it suddenly clicked. 'Are you sure it's only her that's got the crush, mate?'

'Fuck off, Ty.' But there wasn't enough malice in it to be anywhere near convincing.

___________________________________________________

Living upstream had been a lot weirder in the first few months. Now, Beverley was kind of getting used to it, which was weird in itself. Her little boat house, the silence of the country at night, the tug of the sea deadened this far inland, the Thames boys and all the utterly foreign habits and customs that came with them.

One thing that she never did get used to was the way they looked at her sometimes – an intense, searching look, that only ever lasted for a second, not long enough to be impolite, but freaked her out nonetheless.

Okay, maybe she wasn’t getting used to it.

At first she'd thought it was because she was one of Mama Thames' daughters who many of them must have heard a lot about but never met in person -- they were judging her, seeing if she lived up to the rumours and stories. 

But now she reckoned she knew why it happened, or at least she did after that time with Baba Thames. She’d been out for a midnight swim, wanting to test out how her brand new dreads felt in water, and had come up on a stretch of unlit bank for a breather, not that she need one. She just liked taking it all in, the noise of the world at night when it was birds and insects and frogs and not sirens and engines and arguments. It was pitch black further up where the trees thickened, but close to the water the waxing moon gave enough silvery light to see. That was another weird thing about the country: when it got dark, it got dark. Back home everything had this residual orangey glow to it so that you forgot just why people never used to travel at night back in the day. 

She was sitting thinking about home, about London and all the people there she was missing, and about how Peter still hadn't even so much as emailed although she was trying very hard not to think about that last bit cause there was no way she was getting hung up over a Folly Wizard of all people. That was when Baba Thames had walked out of the river.

He'd nodded at her, and said nothing as he strode up out of the current and sat down a respectable distance away. She nodded back. 

It wasn't awkward, surprisingly enough, probably cause all-hours swimming was one of the few things they all had in common. She'd never exchanged more than ten words with the Old Man, and felt they had a mutual understanding that no more were needed. Him and his people had made her feel welcome and that was pretty much all she'd asked for. So they sat, together on the bank. In silence.

Until she noticed he was staring at her. It was that same searching look.

He asked her something, in a language that could've easy been Welsh but she knew probably wasn't, and he sounded so desperate she wished she could understand what he'd just said. 

'I'm sorry. I don't speak Welsh.'

He waited just a second longer, bright eyes in an ancient face still searching, till he must have given up. 'It's no fault of yours, my dear. I shouldn't expect you to.' 

And that was that, apparently. 'Goodnight. Or is it morning now?' He said as strode back out into the river, and Beverley left too not long after. 

Back in her houseboat she dreamt she was in London and Peter was there, but he wouldn't talk to her in that creepy dream way where he was saying things but for some reason she couldn't hear them, and when she woke up she was thoroughly pissed with her own subconscious -- she wasn't that into him, dreaming about a guy was just cheesy. 

And then she remembered what else had happened last night. She hadn't really thought about it before, but the rivers she'd met since coming here had to be half or less of the children Baba Thames had had in his lifetime. She wondered what mum would be like if half of her sisters dropped dead, and immediately stopped cause that wasn't something she should dwell on for any length of time, but the relevance was still there. Even after a hundred years, it must still hurt, to lose that many children. How similar was she to the old Beverley? 

Suddenly she had a horrible feeling she knew exactly what they were looking for when they stared at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like since Ty and lady Ty obviously don't get on there's no obligation for two gods of the same river to like the same things or even the same people WHICH MEANS that either previous Bev chose to snog Peter in lies sleeping specifically to piss off current Bev or he has his own goddamn crush (guess which one I chose to write about)


	3. Chapter 3

They'd seen it coming for a long time, although time didn't work nearly the same where they were. It had been one or two ghosts, and then more, and then the pattern became evident -- all the worst of the worst, the truly foulest lot that Undead London had to offer. An army was being amassed.

And the rivers were overjoyed -- Tyburn especially, he was always a bit more violent, but they all agreed it was the best bloody bit of action they were going to see in a long time, if it really did come to a fight (which of course, in the end, it did -- more like a battle really). 

Which meant they got prepared. Which meant that, when Peter came crashing through into their world for the third time, Beverley was ready. 

He was the first to spot the two figures on the edge of the forest, and although he wasn't close enough to stop the Faceless Man from getting away, he was close enough to put a javelin through the 17th century bastard threatening Peter with a flintlock pistol. As complicated as weapons had got over the years, sometimes you just had to do it the old-fashioned way -- with a sharp stick and a strong throwing arm. He wasn't showing off. At all. 

And then he was right there, right in front of him, and every other thought left Beverley's head because he was there. Looking bewildered and relieved and confused and beautiful. Staring. He had such dark eyes... 

Beverley kissed him -- he hadn't been planning on it as an introduction but time was short and he had nothing to lose. It was the best kiss he'd had in a thousand years, and he meant that literally cause he wasn't one for poetics. Peter tasted like a living, breathing, human -- something sweet Beverley couldn't put his finger on, the smell all wizards carried and that particular scent of the lot from the Folly, foreign spices, fear and sweat and life and magic and everything he'd missed about the world above, everything that made him want to keep kissing him and never stop. 

'Beverley?'

'Hey, babes.' 

It was a precious few seconds they got, Beverley legging it down to Londinium and the bridge where Mr Punch was no longer anchored and Peter slightly struggling to keep up -- a precious few seconds where Beverley never once let go of Peter's hand. 

Cause although he knew that really, Peter only belonged to one Beverley Brook and it wasn't him; and it was a matter of heartbeats before he got pulled back into whatever future-deciding conflict was going on in the world of the living; and Beverley was dead and buried and his chance at love was too -- none of that was going to stop him making the most of every second that he got. 

Technically, every second that he stole from his newer counterpart (she was bound to be pissed that he'd snogged her boyfriend). 

They were getting close when the Faceless Man's Army Of Arseholes appeared, and Beverley had to stop Peter charging forward regardless (god he was such a hero) till their backup arrived. The look of recognition he gave Tyburn was enough to strike a tiny spark of jealousy in Beverley. But it fizzled out fast. There was no time for that. 

Because then it was over. 

And he stole one more kiss, on the cheek this time, and he ran off to join the fray. 

_Worth it,_ he thought, readying another javelin. _Totally worth it._

____________________________________________________

It took her a long time to ask him about it, probably because she was still figuring it out herself. 

On the one hand, was she rightfully enraged that her boyfriend had snogged someone else? Absolutely.

But on the other hand, had it been Peter's idea? Not really. 

And there was the whole thing of who he had snogged. She'd spoken to him only once, the original Beverley, and she barely remembered it. As far as she knew it was very difficult for them to communicate directly; but sometimes she did get... _things._ Impressions. In her dreams, mostly, and they felt so familiar they could almost be memories except she didn't remember them happening. 

Like some ghostly fucker _snogging her boyfriend,_ for example. 

They were sitting together on the sofa, opposite ends, when she finally went for it. She looked up from her textbook. 'You've met him, haven't you?'

Peter looked up from the Latin he was reading (with surprising ease these days). 'Met who?'

She gave him a Look. 'You know who.'

The second she saw the look on his face she regretted that last bit, 'NOT Voldemort you nerd! I meant,' she faltered, not entirely sure what to call the other Beverley that wouldn't sound weird. 'You get what I meant. The... previous god of my river.'

'That sounds like a euphemism.'

'I know, but I couldn't think of anything better.'

'Yeah, I did meet him. Technically speaking it was for a fraction of a second cause time works differently wherever they are -- don't ask me how --'

'Wasn't going to.'

He smiled, and then it faded. 'I was kind of falling to my death at the time.'

'Makes sense.'

'It does?'

'Yeah. Haven't you noticed you tend to be almost dying every time you talk to the old lot?'

He paused. 'Well, yes, but I was kind of distracted at the time. Dying wasn't the most important thing I had to be doing. Chorley had this ghost army and --'

'I feel like you're missing something out here.'

He had the grace to look guilty at least. 'Why do you want me to say it if you seem to already know?'

Beverley gave him another Look, to cover up for the fact she didn't really know why she wanted him to say it.

'He kissed me. The other Beverley. It wasn't a bad kiss, as kisses go, but I wasn't going to bring it up at all just in case you took it the wrong way -- and before you do take it the wrong way, it wasn't my idea.'

'But you didn't mind.'

'...No.' 

'Peter, you do realise how incredibly not straight that is, right?'

'Is that really your issue with all this?' He looked like he'd just dodged a bullet and was really confused about how. 'Don't get me wrong, I have plenty of issues with that too, but I thought -- I don't know, I thought you'd be angry that I kissed someone else and didn't tell you, not...'

'Like you said, it wasn't your idea. I'm angry at him for kissing you when he knows well fine you're mine but -- wait, what did you just say?'

'...Nothing?'

'I said "totally not straight" and you said "plenty of issues",' she swung her legs up onto the sofa and faced him. 'There's no way we're not talking about this.'

'I thought we were talking about river stuff?'

'Not anymore we're not.' 

He sighed, defeated. 'Fine. So as you probably know due to weird psychic connections or whatever, I met the bloke who was also technically my girlfriend in a past life,' he put down the Latin and faced her on the sofa, 'and he snogged me and I was... more than okay with it and I'm _so not okay with that.'_

'How not okay?'

'I've been actively not thinking about it since.'

'Oh my god, Peter, it doesn't have to be that big a deal, does it? It was one kiss!'

'Yeah, but... I don't know, it's just made me... _question_ a lot of stuff that, if I'm honest, I'd already been questioning but... I don't know.'

Beverley reckoned if she let him keep talking, he'd work it out himself. It was like his experiments: sometimes all he needed was to think out loud for a bit and he found the answer. Also, it distracted her from having to figure out what she was feeling.

'I think what's bothering me is that I do know. I know that I'm probably... not... straight,' he didn't actually look her in the eyes when he said that, which wasn't a good sign. 'I just don't know how the hell I'm supposed to deal with that, and it still kind of terrifies me and I can't believe I just said all that out loud.'

Okay, that was her cue to step in. She took both his hands in hers, and he looked up and met her eyes. 

'Babes, the fact that you just told me all of that shows you're dealing. Believe me, it does get easier to talk about it -- and it definitely gets less terrifying.'

'Wait, are you --?'

'I'm not straight, is what I'm not. I didn't tell you before cause it never really came up in conversation.'

'I was going to say "talking from experience", but same difference.' He didn't seem all that shocked, which Beverley took as a good sign. 

'But anyway, how come you knew what happened before I told you? It is psychic connections, isn't it?' Somehow he always managed to change the subject back to science, magic, or both. 

'To tell you the truth, I don't even know. I just sort of... remembered it. Like it happened to me but didn't. And I think he, the other Beverley, I think he remembers stuff that happens to me too -- but more often, like it's easier for him, or something.' 

Peter looked fascinated, and she could tell he was trying to work out exactly how it all worked. 

'Bear in mind this is based off information I got when I was eight, so it's not very reliable.'

When he did start asking questions, it wasn't the kind she was expecting. 

'Is it weird? Having this ghost lurking around in your subconscious, or wherever it is he lurks?' 

She had to take a second to think about that. 

'Yea, it is -- it's really weird, and not just cause of the occasional psychic connections as you call them, or that there's someone out there who can maybe even hear my thoughts to a degree.' 

She took a deep breath. She'd found what it was that had been bugging her, the answers she'd been looking for, the reason she'd wanted to ask Peter about the whole thing. 

'If I'm the replacement, then I don't know how much of me is me, and how much of me is... pre-decided. I found this torc in my river when I was little --'

'A torc? Like a proper celtic one? Cause you should probably give that to the museum.'

'Only when the museum asks for it -- my point is, when I was a kid I would hold onto it, listening for what you'd call _vestigia_ , and once I got this... I remembered, wearing it. Round my neck. I never put that thing on, Peter, that wasn't my memory! But it felt like mine. Like I'd lived it.' 

Peter held her hands tighter. 'You know I have no idea how any of this works.'

'That's a comforting start to your pep talk.'

'This isn't a pep talk, this is emotional support. I think. As I was saying, I don't know what it's like to be an _orisa_ \-- but I do know you. I know you and I love you.' 

She smiled reflexively when he said that.

'And I don't think it really matters, if some things about you were decided before you were born, cause it's the same for everyone. We're all bits of other people that had some kind of influence on us.'

'That was actually really well said.'

'Thanks, babe. My point is you're still you, and you're still unique, and I promise I'm never gonna kiss him again even if I am probably bisexual.'

He rushed out that last part and she grinned despite her annoyance. ' _So_ not what you're meant to say in pep talks.' 

'You're okay, though? It's not bugging you anymore?'

She paused. 'I think it's always going to bug me. I don't know if it's ever going to stop being weird, having a previous incarnation kicking about in the back of my head. But it's the kind of weird that'll have to be normal.'

'I'm with you there.'

She picked up her ecology textbook again, and shuffled round so she was lying against Peter's chest as he sat back and grabbed the Latin he was working on. 

The kind of weird that was normal. Didn't that just describe their lives?

**Author's Note:**

> how tangible is the connection between the ghost rivers and the current rivers??? if they both Are their river to some extent then are they also the same person to some extent??? william tyburn seemed to know stuff about lady ty that only she could know (in the hanging tree) so is there a telepathic link do they share memories??? i have so many questions!!!!!!!!!


End file.
